"'Pon my word, Dacres, I'm rather sorry I let you carry out this mad prank, after all. It's bound to leak out."
"It may, sir. If it does the flagship's people won't say much. The less they say the better, for they will be the laughing-stock of the squadron."
"I don't know so much about that," rejoined the commander. "You see, we must do our best to keep it to ourselves. The culprit must be screened. If there is a row, of course I must own up to my share."
"You must do nothing of the sort, sir," said the sub firmly. "This is my pigeon, you know. Anyway, they haven't tumbled to it yet, and when they do they'll have to go a long way to spot me."
During the First Dog Watch the commander told the captain, who laughed till the tears rolled down his mahogany-coloured cheeks. The chaplain had it third hand from the skipper, and passed the news on to the ward-room. As for the gun-room they heard it directly from Dacres.
So far so good. Loyalty to a brother officer joke a sure bond that the joke against the unpopular flagship would be kept a secret. But Jones, the captain's valet, heard his master and the padre laughing immoderately—was human enough to put his ear to the keyhole of the captain's cabin. In less than an hour the whole of the lower deck heard the yarn, and Mr. Dacres was unanimously acclaimed a "thunderin' brick."
Everything passed off quietly until the following afternoon. It was the calm before the storm.
Basil Dacres had just completed his trick as "Duty Sub," and was enjoying a cooling glass of lime juice in the gun-room when a signalman knocked at the door.
"Chit for Mr. Dacres, sir," he announced.
The sub held out his hand for the folded slip of paper. His intuition told him that something was amiss: it was.